


Patience

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Music, Naked Sherlock, Separations, Victorian, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will you please just come home? Yours most sincerely, Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patience

[This is written on hotel stationery and Doctor Watson’s usually firm hand often appears a bit agitated.]  
  
  
  
I wonder if, were I to murder him, would anyone else be as clever as he and figure out that I was the culprit.  
  
I’ve been pacing. This room is too small to pace properly. Our room in Baker Street is much larger, of course, but three times as cluttered. Somehow he manages to pace despite the stacks of books, newspapers, cushions, and whatever else he’s left in the middle of the floor. His legs are longer than mine, of course, but making excuses for him is not my intention.  
  
In fact, it is exactly the opposite of my intention. I have rarely been so angry. That my rancour is directed at Sherlock Holmes is hardly surprising for anyone who has known him for more than five minutes. He is the most infuriating, self-centred, careless, thoughtless man I have ever met.  
  
*  
  
[Interspersed with the doctor’s notes are letters written in the distinct hand and on the high-quality stationery of Sherlock Holmes.]  
  
Dear John,  
  
I know at which hotel you are staying. Surely you realised that I would deduce it. I am writing because Mrs Hudson told me that I must. I am not certain why. I apologised. Is that not what people do? There was no need for you to leave.  
  
I really do not understand your fury in the first place. My infraction was not detected by anyone, as you have certainly ascertained by now.  
  
Will you please just come home?  
  
Yours most sincerely,  
  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
*  
  
Yes, he is correct—he almost always is—in that if anyone who was going to take notice of his gaffe and respond to or act upon it, we would have surely experienced the repercussions by this time. It has been a week since I moved out; eight days after the incident which still has me in a fury. He writes to me every day; sometimes twice—just brief notes.  
  
I have not, of course, written back.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
Do you recall at what chemist’s shop you purchased arsenic last? What I have is exhibiting some peculiarities that are skewing the results of an experiment. It is for a rather interesting case. A married woman died by poisoning. I suspect either her husband or her husband’s paramour. I believe that one of them substituted her private supply of tea with one of a rather peculiar formula. The suspects did not have access to the same sources for the necessary ingredients, so to determine which was the culprit I must positively determine the exact chemical composition used. Then all I need to do is discover which shop sells the chemicals exhibiting those particular characteristics.  
  
Please reply by return post.  
  
Yours most sincerely,  
  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
*  
  
I admit that I found the scenario intriguing, and since it was to discover a murderer, I did reply to this particular message. I wrote nothing more than the name of the chemist’s shop I used most often and the street on a piece of the hotel stationery and sent it off.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
What an intriguing scenario I revealed! My original theory about either the husband or his paramour being the murderer was, in part, correct, but in a surprising twist, I learned that each of the three different ingredients used to create the deadly tea were obtained from three different sources. This led me to considering the number three, which led me to realise that not only had the husband and his lover worked in collusion, but that there was a third party involved as well.  
  
I must run for now; I am due to give evidence at the inquest.  
  
SH  
  
*  
  
That rogue! He had left me at that point in his story deliberately, I am certain. I suppose I will have to wait until tomorrow’s post to learn the identity of the third party.  
  
I wonder if I will ever have the opportunity to write the story of the case. It was my favourite type, as it allowed Sherlock’s peculiar brilliance in the field of chemistry to be brought to the fore.  
  
No, let me stop myself right here. I will not be writing up any new cases. My publisher has been clamouring for my next submission, so I have reluctantly begun the tale of our most recent—and probably last—case together.  
  
I will, of course, completely eliminate any reference or even hint of the incidents that led to my taking refuge here.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
Thank you for the information on the chemist.  
  
In answer to your question, the deadly trio consisted of the husband, his lover, and his lover’s wife. I am not a keen student of human nature beyond the emotions of greed, jealousy, anger, and hate, which of course are useful to me in my work, so I am not entirely certain of the significance of the relationships between and among them.  
  
I would much rather tell you about it in person than write about it. You are the author, not I.  
  
Won’t you please come home?  
  
Yours most sincerely,  
  
Sherlock Holmes  
  
*  
  
I had not actually asked him who the third person was—not directly. He knew I would be intrigued.  
  
I had been sorely tempted to write to him and ask. I was glad that his note eliminated any reason for that.  
  
*  
  
Dear Doctor Watson,  
  
I am in receipt of your most recent submission. What a fascinating case. I know that your readers will receive it well.  
  
I have noted your new address and the next cheque will be posted properly. Please thank Mr Holmes for sending it along to you.  
  
Most Sincerely Yours,  
  
C.A. Milverton  
  
*  
  
He has sent me oranges and lemons and limes in a basket.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
I had a rather stimulating case and sorely missed you by my side. It started out as an ordinary housebreaking. It was apparent even to the inspector that the perpetrator had entered the first-floor study via a ladder—the imprint of its legs had been captured readily by the soft earth around the home. Ladders are such common things, however, that it was not the most useful of clues. However, once I examined the crime scene carefully, I noted an odd green smudge on the windowsill by which the thief hoisted himself into the house. I realised at once what it was, but as you know, the police require undeniable proof of my theories. I therefore demonstrated that the smudge was a particular type of paint, and that it was a freshly-painted ladder made it even easier for the police to locate the suspect via a house-to-house search. (I do not have to explain to you, my friend, that the perpetrator had to reside in close proximity to the victim; one can hardly carry a freshly-painted ladder through the streets of London any great distance without being noted.)  
  
The real excitement came after the fiend was discovered. He attempted to escape by running through the gardens of several adjacent houses. I joined the police in the chase, of course, working my way through some rather overgrown and untidy gardens.  
  
A particularly young and energetic constable named Skinner was the fortunate winner in this particular race. He seems particularly bright and I believe he has an impressive career as a detective in front of him. The thief, an unsavoury fellow named Tooms (if this were one of your stories I would suspect you of creating the name for no other reason but its rather amusing effect), was apprehended whilst wiggling through a particularly heavy hedge. I was fortunate enough to have been approaching this same hedge from the other side and assisted in physically subduing the slippery man.  
  
I will give you more details when I see you next. I do hope that that will be soon.  
  
In the meantime, there was one unfortunate outcome of this otherwise stimulating chase. I have developed some sort of rash on my hands and face. I believe it was the result of intimate contact with those overgrown hedges and the like—some low-growing plants that someone said is called ‘nettles.” Everything is red and burns and itches horribly. You have treated me successfully for rashes before (Why am I telling you this? You know what you have treated me for. ). I have tried to recall it, but I do not know how you usually treat me for this particular type of ailment. I vaguely recall something in my bath. Perhaps you could write and explain to me what you do?  
  
I would greatly appreciate a reply.  
  
Please, John. I miss you.  
  
Yours,  
  
Sherlock  
  
*  
  
Of course I did reply to his letter; I was angry with him, but not to the extent that I would let him suffer. His skin was especially sensitive. I wrote him a brief note explaining how to treat his skin in a tepid bath with my bran mixture. I told him to bathe in it a few times a day and hoped that it would relieve his suffering. I hoped that he was not rubbing the damaged skins; I did not want him to form scars on his beautiful white skin.  
  
*  
  
He has sent three books. Two of them are new medical texts (and enormously expensive) and one is a cheap novel that was clearly based on one of our published adventures. I laughed out loud at the ridiculous morality and mistakes injected.  
  
I realised that that is what he had intended.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
I fixed the bannister. It was wobbling after a particularly nasty client struck it with his stick. Mrs Hudson was quite (justifiably) angry but I am fairly useful with workmen’s tools and have it all tight and firm again.  
  
She made me a lovely hot meat pie in gratitude.  
  
I wish you were here to help eat it. She put in mushrooms, which you know I detest. I picked them out but I lost my enthusiasm for the whole thing rather quickly.  
  
Please come home. I am afraid she will make me eat mincemeat next.  
  
Yours always,  
  
S   
  
*  
  
He has sent me new gloves. They are dove grey and fit me perfectly.  
  
Of course they do.  
  
*  
  
Dear Doctor Watson,  
  
Please forgive me being rather forward in writing this to you. Mr Holmes told me at which hotel you are residing. I am also going to press my advantage as an older, widowed woman of the world and be rather blunt with you.  
  
I am writing to ask you to please come home.  
  
I do not know what Mr Holmes writes to you, but I obviously know that he writes to you at least once a day, if not twice. I also know that to date you have only replied to him twice.   
  
What I also know is that he is miserable. I bring him meals, sometimes when he asks and sometimes on my own, but he barely touches them, even after a case, when you and he would usually enjoy a bean feast of sorts. I make him all of his favourites, sweet and savoury, but he just picks at them.  
  
He is not sleeping well. I hear him at all hours, banging about. I had to ask him to cease playing his violin in the middle of the night (Mrs Turner next door complained to me twice about it) but he still does on occasion. I have reprimanded him and he begs that I forgive him for forgetting.  
  
He has also gotten involved in a fairly horrid series of experiments. I have no idea what he is doing and do not wish to know, but I nearly had to summon the fire brigade the other day. He does not even have the sense to open the windows. I am certain that the wallpaper is permanently darkened and will have to have it redone—at his expense, of course.  
  
Finally, I am no detective or great observer of his calibre, but I am a woman and was a mother and I do know when someone is not himself. He is sick at heart. He is working and taking cases, but the spark has gone from his eyes. He takes no delight in solving a puzzle; no satisfaction in bringing a criminal to justice. Rather, he is restless and dissatisfied. He takes no pleasure in the few worldly delights in which he used to indulge. He has not gone to a concert since you departed. He does not go for any walks, even on lovely fair afternoons, as he did with you. He does not ever go out to dinner, even with that nice Inspector Lestrade, who visits from time to time.  
  
I believe—no, I know—that he is lonely. I hear him speaking aloud to himself sometimes. I believe that he is speaking to you—I mean, that he is speaking as if you were here, listening to him, as he did when he was trying to solve a case.  
  
I do know what it is to feel lonely. I miss my Mr Hudson and my sweet son still, even though it has been years since they passed. I do not believe that he knew what it was to be lonely until you came into his life. I believe that he did not ever have anyone to miss before you came to live here.  
  
So please, please, will you forgive him and come home? I know that he has asked for forgiveness. He never lies to me (he has tried but I am not, as some people are, easily fooled by his theatrical leanings).  
  
I realise that I have taken liberties but if you care about Mr Holmes _as much as I believe you do,_ I expect to see you at the door any day now.  
  
Respectfully yours,  
  
M. Hudson  
  
*  
  
Her letter nearly broke my heart. I was horrified to hear how strongly my absence was affecting him. I was greatly concerned about his abstaining from eating and sleeping. I knew that he could abstain for longer than most men, but at some point those habits would come crashing down on him. I envisioned him collapsing during an investigation; the humiliation would be acute and relentless.  
  
I nearly broke my resolve over that letter.  
  
*  
  
He sent concert tickets. Two of them, enclosed in his writing paper, with a description of the music as he would have given me in person and ‘SH’ scrawled on it.  
  
I have no one in particular with whom to attend a concert.  
  
I wondered if he attended it. If the seats were adjacent.  
  
The next morning, I regretted not going.  
  
*  
  
I did write back to dear Mrs Hudson, of course. I had to explain my position. I had to make it clear that it was not merely my ire which kept me from Baker Street.  
  
I had to tell her that I missed her, and our rooms, and my dear Sherlock, more than I could describe.  
  
I had to, but I did not.  
  
Instead I told her about the hotel and what the ladies who dined there wore and that the bedclothes were not nearly as nice as hers.  
  
I did explain that I could not return. Not yet.  
  
And I begged her to take care of my dear one—Mr Holmes—and to let me know if he took a turn for the worse.  
  
*  
  
I began to wait for the post.  
  
Sherlock still wrote, but it was not every day now. His letters had grown rather alarming. They would not have been so to anyone but me, but I knew him so well I sometimes found myself pulling on my coat, ready to abandon my rooms and run home just to ensure that he was all right.  
  
Sherlock was, at that point, paying my hotel bill. I had been moved to a suite under his direction to the hotel staff one day when I was out. I was extremely upset with him about it—the hotel staff obviously knew that my bill was being paid by someone else and they knew by whom. That was not exactly helping our circumstances.  
  
I was not foolish enough to refuse his payments. The suite was very lovely and the meals that came to my rooms were quite nice now. And it was still his fault that we were living apart.  
  
My publisher had loved my last story and I was working on the next. There were so many that I hadn’t yet captured as a narrative that I could satisfy the public (and my editor) for months.  
  
*  
  
Dear John,  
  
The last case was so boring. Does no one have any imagination anymore? Any ambition?  
  
People are boring and dull and tiresome. They never say what they mean. They are hateful to those who are different.  
  
Mrs Hudson made scones with clotted cream and honey and lemon curd. They do not taste the same as when you feed them to me so I didn’t eat them.  
  
It is two o’clock but I do not wish to sleep. My bed is cold and empty without you.  
  
Sherlock  
  
*  
  
I hoped that my editor would meet an untimely and painful death. The entire situation was his fault.  
  
*  
  
John,  
  
Where is my supply of arsenic? I know that you were here when I was out. I suspect that Mrs Hudson telegraphed you that I was out of town for a few days on a fairly boring case but you would have liked the inn; the fish dinner was particularly lovely. I didn’t eat it of course but someone else said it was nice and I know that you like fish when it’s cooked properly but the bed was horrid and I forgot and asked for two rooms adjoining and had to change it to just one room  
  
Just one room that is all we would need we could get a bigger bed but maybe two rooms one just for sleeping and kissing and I want to be bare, with my skin touching yours, and I have a headache and I need you to come fix it  
  
Please come fix it. I love it when you fix my headaches you are the only one who knows how  
  
SH  
  
*  
  
Here is the truth of it: My editor was starting take notice. I was too lavish in my praise of him. Too affectionate in my descriptions. I was already disguising the breakup of my marriage, but that wasn’t enough to explain my constant presence in Baker Street. Apparently it wasn’t “natural.”  
  
I do know that an editor’s job is to take notice of these things; to take them out before anyone else notices them.   
  
I know that they do not like being hated by their own clients. I know that they often feel slaves to the rules that prescribe their jobs; their work.  
  
I know that most authors hate editors.  
  
I do know that most editors develop thick skins.  
  
I also know that many of them drink and indulge in even worse habits, and that—believe it or not—the placement of a comma can cause a sleepless night. There is no relief from the rules—ever. One newspaper editor told me of the experience of working on the story of the murder of his own wife. She and her baby (an illegitimate child conceived via her lover) had been stabbed so many times that experienced police constables at the scene were sick—she and her child had been stabbed by her lover. I cannot even put into words what I feel about that, and he had to be concerned with a correctly placed bit of punctuation and the knowledge that what was published was so absolutely not the true story.  
  
As for me, I do know that my editor is particularly concerned with my scribblings; I am not being immodest to say that my stories are driving the entire publication. They are enormously popular and circulation increases exponentially every month. He is (rightly) concerned that my—affection—for Sherlock will start to cause alarm.  
  
But as far as I was concerned, it was all Sherlock’s doing. Yes, I can write. Yes, I do write well. But could I possibly have penned even _one_ story without him?  
  
So how could I not write about the rest of it? About living with him and being his doctor and what his amazing intellect did to him in relation with the rest of the world. How it drove him mad and how I alone could comfort and relieve him.  
  
God, I love him.  
  
*  
  
I got a note just every few weeks now, and I fought my desire to go see him every minute. Mrs Hudson had written that he had been horribly ill and she had had to call in another doctor. It made me sick. He had been bedridden for over a week and I got no notes for ages; when he finally wrote his hand was shaky and difficult to read.  
  
I really could not do this any longer. It had been months and I could picture him gaunt and pale and groaning in agony with one of his headaches.  
  
I could picture him alone in his bed, bare (I do truly love his use of that word—so childlike and sweet).  
  
*  
  
Dear Doctor Watson,  
  
Please come home right away. Mr Holmes is horribly ill and has thrown two doctors out already. He can barely sit upright, let alone stand. He cannot keep any food down. His fever is interfering with his reason. He thought it was winter the other day when it is so hot I was nearly fainting from it.  
  
I am very close to writing to his brother.  
  
Please, please come home.  
  
Yours,  
  
M Hudson  
  
*  
  
John,  
  
I dreamt last nght that I was kissing you and you were kssing me and it was the best thing I have ever felt. I wake up stiff sometimes and I rub it the way you taught me but its not the same as you rubbing it.  
  
I know that we are both deviants and that this is wrong  
  
I do not care. I want you here, in my bed. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to kiss you and taste you. I want to rub you until you feel very nice indeed and I want to feel  
  
I want to feel anything  
  
I want to feel anything but this horrid pit in my chest. It hurts to breathe.  
  
Please please please come home I am so so sorry that I spoke of our activities in public please forgive me  
  
I do love you. I truly do.  
  
S  
  
*  
  
I am so very glad that I finally came to my senses and came home. I had missed hearing Mrs Hudson bustling about. I had missed our rooms—the stacks of books, newspapers everywhere, the violin case on the sofa. That odd odour that neither of us had ever been able to figure out. It was all so familiar and homely and I had missed it so very much.  
  
And then, of course, there was Sherlock. I hadn’t realised until I walked through the door and he leapt up and embraced me that I had missed him so much it hurt—I mean an actual, physical pain that travelled around my body—my head, my chest, my legs. I had been blaming the pain on the weather, and the bed in the hotel, and a rich diet, and anything else I could think of.  
  
*  
  
We sat down for a lovely supper; Mrs Hudson couldn’t stop smiling at the two of us seated at our dining table. I admit that I couldn’t stop, either.  
  
*  
  
After she had cleared the table and gone back downstairs with her tray, Sherlock smiled shyly at me. “Would you like a sherry?” he offered. I accepted and he poured two glasses. “Would you like me to play for you?”  
  
“I would,” I agreed, making myself comfortable on the sofa.  
  
*  
  
“That was lovely,” I told him as he wiped down his instrument and put it lovingly away. “I’ve missed that.”  
  
“There was no reason for you to miss it,” he replied a bit petulantly.  
  
“There was, but I don’t wish to discuss it right now.” He shrugged and I laughed at his expression. “Come over here,” I continued. “And lock the door first.”  
  
“Why?” he asked suspiciously whilst simultaneously doing as I had directed.  
  
“Because I missed our rooms and the sounds of Baker Street and Mrs Hudson’s lamb and my bed… and your bed,” I told him honestly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
He approached me a bit warily. His mood had been changing constantly during our few hours together.  
  
“Come here, next to me,” I instructed. “Lie down. Put your head here.” I indicated my lap.  
  
Frowning, he did so, and I found my throat tighten a bit. How I had missed this! I stroked his arm and frowned back. “You haven’t been eating, have you?” I reprimanded sternly. “Honestly, Sherlock, you must learn to take better care of yourself.”  
  
“Why?” He shrugged, looking up at me a bit mischievously. “Isn’t that what my doctor is supposed to do?”  
  
“Yes. That is what your doctor is supposed to do, but your doctor has been making a rather bad job of it, hasn’t he?” I ran my fingers through the tousled dark curls.  
  
“It’s not entirely his fault,” the thin man whose head rested so comfortably on my lap replied carefully. “Sometimes I am not a very well-behaved patient.” He suddenly tipped his head further into my hand, pressing into it as a kitten does. “I am so very sorry, John,” he said quietly. “I’ve missed you terribly and I know that it was all my fault and I just didn’t know what to do about it. Mrs Hudson said that there was nothing that I _could_ do, and I just had to be patient and you would eventually not be angry with me any longer, and that was rather awful. I didn’t like that—not being able to do anything more than what I did.”  
  
“I’m sorry. I was—truly—absolutely furious with you—and Mrs Hudson was correct. I did need time. But you did more than you realise,” I continued, laying a finger on his soft lips to prevent him from interjecting. “All those gifts, and the tickets to the concerts and plays…”  
  
“So you came back because I bought you things?” He was becoming distressed, and I brushed my hand across his knotted forehead.  
  
“No, that’s not what I mean.” I paused and chose my next words carefully. “It wasn’t the value of the things. It was that you gave them to me.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” he fussed.  
  
I stroked an angular cheekbone with one finger. His skin was like ivory. Far too thin and far too pale. As his doctor, I certainly had been neglectful. “Do you know that the most important thing that you did was to write all those letters to me? Not just the ones apologising—although those were greatly appreciated—but all the others. The ones when you wrote to me about cases and experiments and Mrs Hudson’s flirtation with the butcher. Your new boots that gave you blisters. How you learned that you do not care for canard a l’orange and what happens when you eat goose that’s gone off. How you fixed the wobbly banister.”  
  
“But those are just ordinary things. Why did they mean so much?” He twisted slightly so he could see my face more clearly. His eyes were bright and keen and glittering.  
  
“Because, my brilliant but occasionally idiotic darling, what I missed the most were all those ordinary things. I missed having breakfast with you and listening to you play and smelling your tobacco. I missed you complaining that the mail was late. I even missed taking care of you when you were ill—I am so sorry I wasn’t here to attend to you after the goose incident…”  
  
“It was horrid,” he admitted.  
  
I laughed at his sincere tone. He was so sweet when he was like that—puzzled and confused and apologetic and human. My finger found his lips again and stroked them.  
  
“Can you guess what else I missed?” I prodded, smiling as his mouth opened.  
  
“I never guess.” He captured the tip of my finger between his teeth and I felt a lovely warmth as his tongue brushed it.  
  
“Shall we retire for the evening?” I suggested.  
  
“Oh,” he breathed as I shifted. He sat up and wrapped his arms around my neck. “Yes, please.”  
  
*  
  
“God, Sherlock—the bed… is going… to come… apart.” I was breathless and overheated and perspiring and my muscles burned and I had never felt so glorious in my entire life. Sherlock was beneath me and equally breathless; his ivory skin displayed a beautiful flush and was gleaming and slick.  
  
Not all of the gleaming and slickness was being produced by him, although his contribution was impressive. No. We had discovered a lovely new ingredient to add to our amorous activities and we were utilising it to its—and our—full capabilities.  
  
I wondered if we were the first to discover the wonderful capabilities of Macassar oil. I doubted it, but I was eternally grateful that we had hit upon it. Otherwise by that point in our evening we both undoubtedly would have been experiencing a great deal of discomfort and—to be blunt—chafing. As it was, he and I had been enjoying every inch of each other for at least an hour.  
  
I know what those men do—the ones who lurk in the very darkest corners of Whitechapel. The men who prey—and I do mean that in every sense of the word—on the boys who offer themselves there. I know what they do to them physically. I know what effect it has on the boys. In short, I know what buggery is and honestly, it repels me.  
  
Sherlock also knows what it is, and he has only brought it up once.  
  
So that is not the activity I am describing.  
  
No, what we were doing—what we had been doing for quite some time—was much less invasive but certainly was giving both of us a great deal of pleasure. Oh, how I had missed him—missed this. I smiled down on him and he beamed back up at me as our bodies slid across one another. Sometimes we would use our hands on each other and the light oil made a surprisingly enticing—enthralling—sound.  
  
The sounds that Sherlock made when I laid over him, our organs pressed deliciously between us, were beautiful.  
  
I was home.  
  



End file.
